


Of Blinis and Black Ops

by Wynn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A lot of cursing, Because these two are angst machines, Crack, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Humor, I Don't Even Know, So some feels, Tagging Bucky/Steve and Victor/Yuuri because both are implied and/or discussed, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 09:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10303214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynn/pseuds/Wynn
Summary: “Just kill me and get it over with already! What the hell are you waiting for, asshole?”Bucky raises his brows. “Asshole?I’mthe asshole? Who tried to kill who here, pipsqueak?”The kid rips a chunk of grass out of the ground and chucks it at Bucky’s face.-Or the one where Yuri Plisetsky is a trained assassin and is sent to kill Bucky Barnes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. I reblogged two birthday posts on Tumblr for Bucky and Yuri, both March babies, and I thought, 'Huh... I wonder what it would be like for these two to interact.' And then my brain spit out this. It may or may not be continued depending on the response and future inspiration.

Of Blinis and Black Ops,  
Or Bucky Barnes and the Pissed Off Pancake

_

Without a shadow of a doubt, Bucky Barnes knows that God hates him. Not because of the war. Or Hydra. Though those were both absolutely shit, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. No, the proof that Bucky has of God’s eternal hatred for him comes in a decidedly smaller package. A human package. A tiny blond human package to be precise, one so small it could snap like a twig if the wind blew in the right direction, but one that was so full of piss and vinegar that the wind didn’t dare lest it be punched straight in the balls.

Metaphorically, of course, as the wind doesn’t have balls.

Unlike Bucky, who does and who thus dodges to avoid the literal punching that this tiny blind terror before him tries to do to his delicates now. Bucky’s gone enough rounds with the Black Widow, friendly and otherwise, to be on perpetual guard against a swift shot to the nuts. So rather than crumple to the ground in squealing pain as the kid no doubt intends, Bucky grabs the kid’s arm and then grabs his shirt and hauls him up and over Bucky’s head before slamming him to the grass hard enough to knock the wind out of his skinny chest.

The lack of breath doesn’t deter the kid for long. He kicks out a second later with his legs, but Bucky knows this move too. He’s felt the iron grip of Natasha’s thighs squeezing the unholy life out of him enough times in his very long life to dodge this also on instinct by now. He darts back in and pulls out the big guns, splaying his left hand across the kid’s chest and shoving him back down to the ground. 

Hard.

“Stay down,” he orders. “Unless you want me to toss you through the air like a pissed off pancake again.”

The kid goes still, showing more sense than Steve ever did at his age, but he doesn’t ease up on the murder eyes, glaring so hard at Bucky that Bucky thinks his head might actually explode from the pressure.

“You want to tell me why you just tried to kill me?” he asks, chancing a glance around to make sure that the scuffle hadn’t drawn any undue attention. But the suburban street that marks Stage 4 of his morning run remains as sleepy as it always does at this ungodly hour of the early morning, so he turns back to the kid in time to see him snarl, “Eat shit and die.”

Bucky laughs at the surly response. He takes the kid in now that he has the chance, now that the kid’s not trying to stab him or bash his head against the sidewalk. He’s sixteen, at the most, the kid stretched thin by puberty but not yet filled out. Long blond hair pulled into a ponytail, eyes bright and green and narrowed still in a glare, lips bitten raw and twisted into a scowl. Bucky thinks the kid’s from Moscow, if he’s placing the accent right. Somewhere in Russia at least, which narrows down the list of suspects. He flips through the likely candidates, both who would want him dead and who would send _a fucking kid_ to do it: Hydra, the KGB, the Red Room maybe though they usually dealt in female assassins, maybe Department X- Bucky’s heard rumblings of them being back in the mix now.

“All right,” he says to the kid. “How about a name? You got a name?”

The kid struggles against his grip. He’s trained, but not modified, not moving Bucky an inch for all his efforts. 

“Mine’s Bucky, in case you didn’t know. Sometimes they don’t tell you. Just show you a picture, right? Maybe a list of stats, but-”

“Just kill me and get it over with already! What the hell are you waiting for, asshole?”

Bucky raises his brows. “Asshole? _I’m_ the asshole? Who tried to kill who here, pipsqueak?”

The kid rips a chunk of grass out of the ground and chucks it at Bucky’s face.

Bucky closes his eyes and prays for the patience that 25 years of friendship with Steven Grant Rogers has bestowed upon him (minus, of course, the 70 in the middle that required patience of a different sort). Pulling in a slow breath, he opens his eyes again and stares down at the kid. He’s breathing fast, just shy of panic, his thin chest straining against Bucky’s metal hand. Bucky can feel the rapid flutter of his heartbeat against his palm, can feel the ragged edge of fear whipping at him in the trembling of his lips. 

Whoever sent the kid here is going to die a very slow and very painful death.

“I’m waiting for your name,” he says now. “I can’t very well introduce you to Steve if I don’t know your name.”

The kid looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Hah?”

“Steve,” Bucky says. “Steve Rogers. You know, the guy who used to be Captain America. I was considering killing every last goddamn bastard who sent you here by myself, but the more I talk to you, the more I know Steve would like you, and I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t let him come too. So I need your name if I’m going to introduce you.”

The kid freezes. Only Natasha’s crazy ass cat has stared at Bucky with more feral intensity. “You want to kill the people who sent me here?”

“Yes. They sent a fucking kid to try to kill me.”

“I’m not a kid! I’m sixteen!”

“And I’m 100, as of three days ago, so to me, you’re a kid.”

The kid rolls his eyes, proving Bucky’s point.

“So are you going to tell me?” he asks after a moment. The sun’s beginning to rise, and it would do nobody any good if the former Winter Soldier were found accosting some skinny, pissy punk in the middle of Primrose Drive.

The kid looks back at him now and narrows his eyes. “That depends,” he says, and the gleam in his eyes turns calculating. “Do you save people too, or do you just kill them?”

“Do I _save_ people? Are you serious? What the hell else do you think I’ve been trying to do for the past five minutes?”

The kid dismisses his questions with a shake of his head. “I don’t mean me. I meant someone else. Someone… good.”

The kid averts his gaze at the last.

The shriveled little scraps left of Bucky’s heart clench hard in his chest.

“I save people,” he says quietly. “Try to do that more than killing nowadays.”

The kid meets his eyes again. He stares, wary and suspicious but clearly desperate to believe. And Bucky wants him to, so he eases the pressure off the kid’s chest, slowly pulls his left hand back, and then stands, moving a couple feet away, enough to give the kid some space to stand as well. He does, wincing a bit as he draws in full breath. Bucky grimaces and nearly apologizes, but he figures the kid would take it about as well as Steve always had when he was small. So he stays silent, his hands in plain sight.

The kid eyes him. He draws his bottom lip between his teeth and worries it a few seconds before he says abruptly, “Is it true? You trained Viktor Nikiforov?”

Only years of schooling his emotions before his shitbag handlers allows Bucky to conceal his shock. “How do you know that name?”

The kid ignores the question. “You did, didn’t you? He fights like you.”

Bucky ignores the observation. “Is he who sent you?”

The kid heaves out a sigh. “No. He’s all reformed and shit now. He’s fallen in _love_ and is trying to be _normal_. It’s disgusting.”

“Then is he the one you want to save?”

“No. Why the hell would I need to save him? He’s a fucking legend, and if you tell him I said that, I’ll rip your arm off and beat you over the head with it.”

Bucky squashes the urge to laugh. “I won’t. So who do you want to save then, if not him?”

The kid looks away, down at the ground now. But Bucky still catches the blush riding slow up his neck and staining his cheeks. He doesn’t respond, and for a second, Bucky thinks he might just bolt, but then he screws up his face and says, “His name’s Otabek. He’s my- he’s my friend. My only friend,” he adds quietly. “He’s not… like me. He’s- They took him and they said they’d kill him if I didn’t kill you.”

“Why do they want me dead?”

The kid sighs. He lifts his head and looks back at Bucky. “It’s not you. Not exactly. It’s Viktor. I was supposed to kill him for leaving, but I… I didn’t. I-” The kid swallows. His hands tremble. He clenches them into fists and grits out the rest, “If I killed you, they think he’ll come after me for it, and I can- I can finish the mission.”

Bucky lifts a hand and runs it across his brow. God save him from dumbass villains and their dumbass, overly complicated plans. “Seriously? I haven’t spoken to Nikiforov in- shit, over ten years. And even then it wasn’t exactly speaking. Just training. Nothing more. How the hell can they think he’d do anything concerning me?”

“Because you’re the Winter Soldier,” the kid says, like that explains everything. Or anything at all. Bucky must convey some of his bewilderment on his face because the kid heaves out another sigh, louder and longer this time, and says, “You trained him, dumbass.”

Bucky lowers his hand. “Look, kid-”

“How do you not understand this? You trained him. _You_. He saw your trial. You working with the Avengers. Shit, everyone has seen it. He left because of it. You… inspired him or some shit. To be good. To be… more,” he adds, his voice going quiet again.

The pieces, finally, slot into place. Viktor good. Viktor in love. Viktor happy and trying to be more. To be a person and not a weapon. Bucky peers at the kid now. He failed again to kill one of his marks, but Bucky wonders if the failure had been intentional, as intentional as he suspects it had been with Viktor too. The kid, after all, was following their example, trying his best in the shitty circumstances of his life to live, to be a person and not just a weapon.

“You like syrniki?” he asks after a moment.

The kid just squints at him. “Hah?”

“What about blinis?” Bucky asks. “I was going to make Steve some when I got back. We got enough for one more. If you’re hungry…”

The kid takes a step forward. Bucky thinks he just restrains the impulse to grab him by the arm. “Does this mean you’re going to help me?”

“Depends. Are you going to tell me your name? I don’t work with people I don’t know.”

The kid eyes him a long moment, considering, working out whatever he needs to work out within himself to reveal this to Bucky. The pause continues for half a minute more and then the kid says, “It’s Yuri. Yuri Plisetsky. Are you happy now, old man?”

“I’m tickled pink, pipsqueak.” Bucky wants to reach out, to sling an arm around the kid’s neck, to give him a commiserating pat on the back or just ruffle the shit out of his hair, but he also values not being shanked between the eyes, so he jerks a thumb back over his shoulder instead, in the direction of his house and Steve’s. “Let’s go see a man about some blinis and a black ops raid.”

*


End file.
